It Takes a Village
by addictedtolove92
Summary: Priorities are absolutely neccessary with a life like theirs.


_Author's Note: I'm definitely on a roll this weekend! Enjoy guys!_

**It Takes a Village**

It takes a lot these days to get Olivia Benson irritated. With three demanding children running around the house who are screaming at the tops of their very healthy lungs most of the time, she's learned to tolerate a lot and when the case permits—ignore just as much. Of course some days are worse than others and even though she's a mother, she is a human being too. A human being with flaws and quirks and limits—of which her partner in life makes it his business to cross.

"Give those back, Sammy!" Zara exclaims from her appointed spot in the kitchen.

It's days like these that tests said limits and boundaries. Days in which she wonders what in the world could've possessed her to become a mother to the three little terrors. Sometimes they just make her want to pull her already tousled hair.

"Mommy, it's over!" Stella exclaims running toward her waving a Sponge Bob DVD in the air.

"Stella, don't—"

_CRASH!_

"—run."

Stella's loud, bloodcurdling cries fill the space. Olivia is there to scoop her up before she can't let out another one. The child buries her face into her mother's neck. By the time she gets to the bathroom, quickly followed by a concerned Zara and curious Sammy, not only is Stella's lip swollen but a nauseating combination of blood, tears, and saliva has embedded itself into Liv's skin and the collar of her white shirt. Thank God for bleach.

Olivia attempts to sit the child down on the counter but that idea is quickly refuted by way of more crying and tears and saliva.

"Okay, okay, Stella. Mommy's got you sweetheart."

"What's wrong? What's going on?" Nick asks appearing, with the rest of the gang, in the bathroom.

"Stella fell," Zara answers as Olivia opens the medicine cabinet to get out some supplies.

"You'd probably know that if you weren't in the basement with your stupid game," she mumbles.

"How'd that happen?" he questions again, choosing to ignore her previous comment.

"How does it always happen?" is her terse reply. "Okay Stella, mommy needs to see your boo-boo so she can fix it for you."

"No!" she cries. "It will hurt!"

"It'll only sting for a second baby. You probably won't even feel it," Nick puts in.

Stella lifts her head to look at her father.

"Come on."

After some minor cajoling, finally the four year old allows her mother to fix her up. Of course it's not without its dramatics and minor downfalls, but it gets done in a timely manner.

"You're all done," Liv says cheerfully and sets her down on the floor.

"It hurt."

"It's gonna hurt for a little while, just let it heal for a little bit."

"'kay."

"And no more running," she throws in there as Stella, again, runs out of the bathroom to continue her day.

Nick helps Olivia clean up the bathroom before she breezes past him to go back into the kitchen to finish preparing the kids' lunch.

"For the record, I'm not in the basement 'playing my stupid game,'" Nick says following her.

"I don't care what you're doing in there, Nick."

"Well your body language says something different."

"My _body language _says that I'm tired."

"So am I."

"So you're downstairs taking a nap?"

"No, I'm downstairs taking care of some business."

"Taking care of some business? What kind of business?"

"Some work business."

"Today is Saturday."

"I know."

"Why is it that every single weekend I have to remind you that _weekends _aren't for work? Our weekends are dedicated solely to this family."

"Well, work is—"

"I don't care about work right now, Nick!" she exclaims. "I've been up for the past 6 hours waiting hand and foot on _your _three children while you were either asleep or in the basement probably on the phone with Vince—who's _supposed _to be in charge of the office on weekends—working on a case that can surely wait until Monday."

"First of all, I'm just as tired as you are, Olivia. Probably more tired. You're sitting behind a desk half the time while I spend most of my time in the field—"

"Do you think our children care that you're tired? Newsflash, Nick; our lives revolve around them. It is our number one priority, our **joint **responsibility, to take care of these kids; no matter what we've got going on outside of these four walls. You should know that better than anyone and I shouldn't have to keep reminding you."

Nick runs an agitated hand through his waves of hair as Olivia stares daggers into him.

"It's been 6 weeks, Nick, that you've been doing this and I swear, I've been trying to be understanding and patient, but this case is taking its toll on you and our relationship."

"I'm so close to—"

"Not my concern . . . We did not decide to change jobs to turn around and do something even more time consuming. This case is swallowing you whole—I've been there, I know how it is and I can sympathize with you. But I didn't have these kids on my own and I will not raise them on my own when I have a perfectly healthy and capable husband to take on some of this load . . . I need to take a shower, you can finish making the kids' lunch."

Olivia makes a beeline for the stairs, leaving Nick to contemplate on what she has just told him . . . and to make lunch.

* * *

Showers are meant for times when you have an allotted amount of time, baths are for soaking and closing your eyes, enjoying some much needed me-time. She told Nick that she'd be taking a shower, but he needs time to think about their little argument, to reorganize his priorities. He'll thank her later.

She's been sitting in the tub full of bubbles for about 20 minutes now; her hair pulled to the top of her head into a tidy little bun. Eyes closed, she can sense something—or someone, rather—watching her.

"What is it?"

"The kids are dressed and ready to go."

Olivia turns her head and her eyes pop open. "Where are they going?"

"**We **are going to the restaurant of your choice. It is your turn to pick right?"

"Riiiight . . . Why—"

"Listen," he begins sitting down on the little red and blue stool next to the tub, "it didn't take me very long to realize that you were right . . . again."

A whisper of a smile flashes across her lips.

"No need to get all smug."

Olivia chuckles.

"I've called Vince and let him know that my evil better half has taken away all my work-call privileges and that it would be in his best interest to **not **use my number because you'll be screening all my calls."

They both let out a full-fledged laugh at that. It's a well-known fact that all of Nick's subordinates and coworkers thinks Olivia is a sexy, high-maintenance, demanding, no-nonsense witch who has Nick's tail caught between his legs. She absolutely loves it that way and does her best to keep up that persona. And Nick finds it kind of hot.

"He's relayed the message and I assure you that no one from work will be calling any time soon."

"Thank you . . . And will it stay this way? Every weekend?"

"You have my word."

"Can I depend on your word on this, Nick? This is important."

"I promise, babe. No more work on the weekends, I'll try to be home from work at a decent hour, and I will go back to being the caring, attentive father and husband I was before this case came into my life."

"Good; caring and attentive suits you."

He smiles at that. ". . . And naked definitely suits you."

Laughing, Olivia splashes some water into his face. Nick leans across the edge of the tub and kisses her soundly on the lips.

"Da-dee! Stella won't stay out of my room!"

His face still inches from hers he rolls his eyes. "Duty calls."

They kiss once more before he walks out yelling, "Here comes daddy-bear! And he's very hungry!", which is accompanied by a series of laughing, screaming, and, yes, more running.

_Crash!_

Olivia groans inwardly but sinks lower into her tub of bubbles. _He can handle it, _she thinks as her eyes close again.

**The End**

**Disclaimer: I promise, I really don't own anything but the computer I'm typing on, a phone, some clothes, and a few other things that are far less interesting than SVU.**


End file.
